The Bomber

FRIDAY 24 DECEMBER

Thomas sat by the window, looking out across the water. It was a cold and clear evening. The water had frozen over and lay like a black mirror far below. The grayish brown facade of the Royal Palace was illuminated and stood like stage scenery against the wintery sky. On the bridge below, the taxis glided past toward the restaurant and Gamla Stans Bryggeri bar. He could just make out the line outside Café Opera.

He was in the living room of the corner suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel. The suite was as big as an ordinary one-bedroom apartment, with a hallway, living room, bedroom, and a huge bathroom. The police had brought him here. They regarded the Grand Hotel as a suitable place for accommodating people under threat. Royalty and other heads of state often stayed here. The hotel staff were used to dealing with difficult situations. Naturally, Thomas wasn't registered under his own name. Two bodyguards had been posted in the adjoining suite.

An hour ago, the police had informed him that there were no explosive charges in the apartment on Hantverkargatan. But they would have to stay away all the same, until the Bomber had been apprehended. Anders Schyman had decided that Thomas and the children could spend Christmas at the hotel at the paper's expense, if need be. Thomas let go of the view outside and let his gaze travel across the dark room. He wished that Annika could have been there, that they could have enjoyed the luxury together. The furnishings were shiny and expensive looking, the green pile carpet as thick as a mattress. He stood up and walked in to the children in the bedroom next door. They were deep asleep, breathing softly, tired out after the adventure of going on a mini-holiday. They had had a bath in the beautiful bathroom, splashing all over the floor. Thomas hadn't even bothered to mop up after them. They'd had meatballs and creamed potatoes, brought up by room service. Kalle had thought the creamed potatoes were yucky; he was used to Annika's instant mash. Thomas didn't like it when Annika cooked sausages and mash for dinner- once he'd called it pig feed. Thinking about their stupid argument over it, he started crying, something he rarely did.

The police had found no trace of Annika. It was as if she'd vanished off the face of the earth. The car she'd been driving was also gone. The woman who they suspected was the Bomber hadn't been seen in her home since the police became suspicious of her, which was on Tuesday night. They'd circulated an alert for her. The police hadn't said what her name was, only that she'd been a building project manager at the Olympic stadium in Hammarby Dock.

Lost, he paced the thick carpet. He forced himself to sit down in front of the TV. As anticipated, it had seventy digital channels and a bunch of in-house movie channels, but Thomas couldn't settle down to watch anything. Instead he went out into the bathroom and spread the bath towels on the floor. He washed his face in ice-cold water and brushed his teeth with the complimentary toothbrush. The thick towels soaked up the water beneath his feet. He left the bathroom, undressed on the way to the bedroom, and threw his clothes in a heap on a chair in the hallway, then went in to his children. Thomas stood watching them for a moment. As usual, Kalle had spread out his arms and legs so that he occupied most of the double bed. Ellen lay curled up among the pillows at the top. One of the bodyguards had gone to a department store and bought two pairs of pajamas and some Game Boys. Thomas gathered up Kalle's limbs and tucked him in, then walked around to the other side of the bed and nestled down next to Ellen. Carefully, he put his arm under the girl's head and pulled her close. The little girl stirred in her sleep, and put her thumb in her mouth. Thomas didn't bother to pull it out; instead he breathed in the fragrance of the girl, letting his tears run free.

Work in the newsroom was performed with maximum concentration and in great silence. The noise level had been reduced considerably some years ago when the newspaper was computerized, but never before had it been this quiet. They were all sitting around the desk where the paper was produced during the night. Jansson was continuously on the phone, as usual, only quieter and mumbling more than ever. Anders Schyman had installed himself in the chair where the lead writer would sit during the day. He did very little, mostly just sat staring into thin air or talking quietly on the phone. Berit and Janet Ullberg usually worked at their desks in the far corner of the newsroom, but now they sat writing by the night reporters' desk so they could follow what was going on. Patrik Nilsson was also there; Ingvar Johansson had called him in the afternoon. The reporter had been on his flight to Jönköping, and of course he had answered the call.

"It's forbidden to have your cellphone on during the flight," Ingvar Johansson told him.

"I know that!" Patrik screamed with obvious delight. "I just wanted to check if it's true that the plane will crash if you have it on."

"So is it?" Ingvar Johansson asked sarcastically.

"Not yet, but if it does, you'll have a major scoop for tomorrow! 'Kvällspressen Reporter in Plane Crash Drama- Read His Last Words.' "

He shrieked with laughter and Ingvar Johansson rolled his eyes.

"I think we'll hold that, we already have one reporter at the center of a bomb drama. When can you get back?" Johansson filled him in.

Patrik hadn't even stepped off the plane but returned with it to Stockholm. He'd arrived at the newspaper at five in the afternoon. Now he was writing copy for the story of the police hunt for the Bomber. Anders Schyman was secretly watching him. He marveled at the young man's speed and commitment; there was something quite improbable about him. His only flaw was his undisguised delight in accidents, murder, and various other tragedies. But with a bit of experience that would no doubt tone itself down. With time, he would become a very good tabloid journalist.

Schyman stood up to get some more coffee. He felt slightly sick with all the coffee he'd drunk already, but he needed to remain awake. He turned his back on the people in the newsroom and slowly walked toward the row of windows on the other side of the Sunday supplement desk. He stood watching the apartment block next to the newspaper offices. The lights were still on in several windows, even though it was past midnight. People were up watching the thriller on TV3, drinking glogg. Others were wrapping the last of their Christmas gifts. On several balconies, there were Christmas trees, the lights glimmering in the windows.

Schyman had talked to the police several times during the night. He'd become the link between the newsroom and the Krim people. When Annika hadn't showed up at the daycare center by 5 P.M., they began dealing with it as a missing person case. After talking to Thomas, the police command regarded it as out of the question that Annika had disappeared of her own free will. Her disappearance had during the evening been classified as abduction.

Earlier, the police had banned them from calling Annika's cellphone. Schyman had asked why but got no reply. He had, however, passed on the order to the others, and as far as he knew, no one had tried to phone her since.

The staff were shaken and upset. Berit and Janet Ullberg had been crying. It's strange, Anders Schyman thought; we write about these things every day, using people's suffering to spice things up. Yet we're wholly unprepared when hit by it ourselves. He walked off to get another mug of coffee.

Annika was wakened by a cold wind rushing through the passage. She immediately knew what that meant. The iron door under the arena had been opened. The Bomber was returning. Fear made her curl up in a little ball on the mattress; she lay still, breathing raggedly as the strip lights flickered on.

Her instincts were whispering: Be calm, listen to the woman, find out what she wants, do as she tells you, try to win her confidence.

The sound of clattering heels approached; Annika sat up.

"Look at that, you're awake. Good," Beata said and walked over to the folding table. She began unpacking various food items from a 7-Eleven plastic bag. She lined them up around the flashlight battery and the timer. Annika could make out some cans of Coke, Evian water, some sandwiches, and a chocolate bar.

"Do you like Fazer Blue? It's my favorite," Beata said.

"Mine, too, actually," Annika said, trying to keep her voice steady. She didn't like chocolate and had never tried Fazer Blue.

Beata folded up the plastic bag and put it in her coat pocket.

"We have some work to do," she said, sitting down on one of the stools.

Annika tried to smile. "Oh, what are we doing?"

Beata looked at her for a couple of seconds. "We're finally going to get the truth out."

Annika tried to follow the woman's reasoning but failed. Fear was making her mouth dry and parched. "What truth?"

Beata walked around the table and picked something up. When she straightened up, Annika saw that she was holding a noose, the one she'd put around her neck earlier. She felt her pulse quicken but forced herself to look at Beata with a steady gaze.

"Don't worry," the Bomber said, smiling. She approached the mattress with the long rope in her hands. Annika felt her breathing speed up; she couldn't control her feelings of panic.

"Relax, I'm just going to put this back around your neck," Beata said, laughing lightly. "You're so jumpy!"

Annika forced a smile. The noose was around her neck, the rope hanging like a tie on her chest. Beata held onto the end of the rope.

"That's it. Now I'm going to walk around you… I told you to relax!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Annika saw the woman disappear behind her back, still with the rope in her hand.

"I'm going to release your hands, but don't try anything. If you do, I'll tighten the rope for good."

Annika breathed and racked her brains. She realized there was nothing she could do. Her feet were chained to the wall, she had the noose around her neck, and the explosives on her back. It took Beata close to five minutes to untie the rope around Annika's hands.

"Phew, that was tight," she panted when she'd finished. Annika's fingers immediately started tingling as the blood started flowing again. Carefully, she moved her hands back and forth, wincing at the look of them. The skin on her wrists was chafed and raw, either from the rope, the wall, or the floor. Two of the knuckles on her left hand were bleeding.

"Get up," Beata ordered.

Using the wall to support herself, Annika did as she was told.

"Kick the mattress to the side," Beata said, and Annika obeyed. The dried-up vomit disappeared under the foam rubber. While doing this, Annika spotted her bag. It lay some twenty feet away, toward the training arena exit.

Still with the rope in her hand, the Bomber walked backwards to the table. She put the battery and the timer on the floor, keeping her eyes on Annika. Then she gripped the table and pulled it closer. The scraping sound of the table legs against the floor echoed in the passage. When the table was right in front of Annika, Beata backed away again and picked up a stool.

"Sit down."

Annika pulled the stool closer and gingerly sat down. Her stomach turned when she saw the food on the table.

"Have something to eat," Beata said.

Annika started pulling off the plastic seal on the water bottle. "Do you want some?" she asked Beata.

"I'll have a Coke later; you drink," Beata said, and Annika drank. She had a small ham and cheese baguette and forced herself to chew properly. Having eaten half, she couldn't continue, she couldn't get any more down.

"Finished?" Beata asked, and Annika smiled.

"Yes, thanks, that was really nice."

"I'm glad you liked it," Beata said, pleased. She sat down on the other stool. On one side of her was the parcel with Minex, on the other was a brown box, the flaps open.

"Time to begin," she said and smiled.

Annika returned the smile. "Can I ask you something?" she asked.

"Of course," Beata replied.

"Why am I here?"

Beata's smile died at once. "You really don't understand?"

Annika took a deep breath. "No. What I do understand is that I must have made you very angry. I really didn't mean to, and I apologize," she said.

Beata chewed on her upper lip. "Not only did you lie, you wrote in the paper that I was devastated by the death of that creep. On top of that you humiliated me publicly, twisting my words to get a better story. You wouldn't listen to me and my truth, but you listened to the guys."

"I'm sorry I misread your frame of mind," Annika said, as calmly as she could. "I didn't want to quote you saying things you might regret later. You were obviously shaken, and you were crying a lot."

"Yes, I was despairing of the evil of people, that bastards like Stefan Bjurling were allowed to live. Why should fate use me to end the misery? Why should everything always be up to me, eh?"

Annika decided to wait and listen. Beata continued chewing on her lip.

"You lied and spread a false picture of that bastard," she went on after awhile. "You wrote that he was nice and funny and that his workmates liked him. You let them talk, but not me. Why didn't you write what I said?"

Annika felt increasingly confused, but she made an effort to sound calm and friendly. "What did you say that you think I should have written?"

"The truth. That it was a shame that Christina and Stefan had to die. That it was their own fault and how wrong it was that I had to do it. I don't enjoy doing this, if that's what you think."

Annika braced herself to play along. "No, of course I don't think that. I know how you're sometimes forced to do things you'd rather not."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I had to get rid of someone once, I know the feeling." Annika looked up. "But we're not here to talk about me now. This is about you and your truth."

Beata observed her in silence for a while. "Maybe you're wondering why you're not dead yet. Because first you're going to write down my story. It will be published in Kvällspressen, and it will be given as much space as Christina Furhage's death was."

Annika nodded and smiled mechanically.

"I'll show you what I've got," Beata said and pulled something out of the box next to her. It was a laptop computer.

"Christina's Powerbook!" Annika gasped.

"Yes, she was very fond of this. It's fully charged."

Beata got to her feet and walked over to Annika with the computer in her right hand. It looked heavy, her hand was shaking slightly.

"Here you are. Switch it on."

Annika took the laptop. It was a basic Macintosh Powerbook, with a rechargeable battery, a disk slot, and a port for the mouse. She opened the lid and switched on the machine. It hummed to life and started loading the programs. There were only a few, among them Microsoft Word. After a few seconds, the desktop appeared. The desktop pattern was a sunset in pink, blue, and purple. There were three icons on the desktop: the hard disk itself, the Word icon, and a file marked "Me." Annika double-clicked on the Word icon and the 6.0 version started up.

"Right, I'm ready to begin," Annika said. Her fingers were frozen stiff and aching; she squeezed them discreetly under the table.

"Good. I want this to be as good as is possible."

"Okay, sure," Annika said and prepared to start writing.

"I want you to write what I tell you, in my own words, so it'll be my story."

"Naturally," Annika said.

"Though I want you to touch it up so it's neat and easy to read and is stylistically good."

Annika looked up at the other woman. "Beata, trust me. I do this every day. Shall we begin?"

The Bomber straightened up on her stool.

"Evil is everywhere. It's devouring people from within. Its apostles on earth are finding their way into the heart of humanity, stoning it to death. The battle is leaving bloodstained remnants in space because Fate is resisting. One knight is fighting on the side of Truth, a human of flesh and blood…"

"Forgive me for interrupting," Annika said, "but this feels a bit muddled. The reader won't be able to follow."

Beata looked at her with surprise. "Why not?"

Annika knew that she had to choose her words very carefully. "Many people haven't thought as far and gained the same insights as you have," she said. "They won't understand, and then the whole piece is pointless. The idea is for them to get closer to truth, right?"

"Yes, of course," Beata said. It was her turn to be confused.

"Maybe we should wait a bit before we bring in Fate and Evil, and instead do it in a more chronological order. It will make it easier for the reader to take in the truth later on. Okay?"

Beata nodded eagerly.

"I thought maybe I could ask you a few questions, and you can answer whichever ones of them you want."

"Okay," Beata agreed.

"Can you tell me a bit about your childhood?"

"Why?"

"It'll make the readers picture you as a child and that way they'll identify with you."

"I see. So what should I tell you?"

"Anything you like," Annika said. "Where you grew up, who your parents were, if you had any sisters or brothers, pets, special toys, how you did at school, all those things…"

Beata looked at her for a long time. Annika could see in her eyes that her thoughts were far away. She started talking, and Annika put her words into a readable story.

"I grew up in Djursholm. My parents were both doctors. Are both doctors, in fact. They're both still working and still live in the house with the iron gate I grew up in. I had an older brother and a younger sister. My childhood was relatively happy. My mother worked part time as a child psychologist, and my father had a private practice. We had nannies taking care of us- male ones, too. This was in the '70s and my parents were into equality between men and women and open to new ideas.

"I developed an interest in houses early on. We had a playhouse in the garden; my sister and her friends used to lock me inside it. During my long afternoons in the dusk, we started talking to each other, my little house and I. The nannies knew that I'd get stuck in the playhouse, so they'd always come and open the door after a while. Sometimes they'd scold my sister, but I didn't care."

Beata fell silent and Annika stopped writing. She breathed on her hands; it really was cold. "Can you tell me a bit about being a teenager?" she asked. "What happened to your sister and brother?"

The Bomber continued:

"My brother became a doctor, just like our parents, and my sister qualified as a physiotherapist. She married Nasse, a childhood friend, and doesn't have to work. They live with their children in a house in Täby.

"I broke the family pattern a bit because I studied to be an architect. My parents were skeptical. They thought I'd be more suited to be a preschool teacher or occupational therapist. But they didn't try to stop me; they are modern people, after all. I went to the Royal Institute of Technology and finished among the best graduates.

"Why did I choose to work with houses? I love buildings! They speak to you in such an immediate and straightforward way. I love traveling, only to talk to houses in new places- their form, their windows, colors, and luster. I get excited by courtyards sexually. I have thrills up and down my spine when I'm on a train traveling through the suburbs of a city, seeing laundry hung out to dry across the railway line, leaning balconies… I never look straight ahead of me when I'm out walking, always upwards. I have bumped into traffic signs and phone boxes all over the city because I've been studying house facades. I'm simply interested in buildings. I wanted to work with my greatest passion.

"I spent many years learning to draw buildings. But when I graduated, I realized that I had made the wrong choice. Houses on paper don't speak to you; a sketched house is only a template for the real thing. So I went back to the university after only half a year at work and did a degree in constructional engineering. That took several years. When I finished, they were recruiting people for the municipal partnership building the new Olympic stadium in Hammarby Dock. I got a job, and that's how I first came to meet Christina Furhage."

Again, Beata fell silent. Annika waited a long time for her to continue.

"Do you want to read it?" she asked in the end, but Beata shook her head.

"I know you'll make it sound good. I'll read it later, when you've finished." She sniffed and then continued:

"Of course, I knew who she was already. I'd seen her in the paper lots of times, ever since the campaign to get the Olympics to Stockholm was mounted, which she won and was appointed MD of the entire project.

"Where did I live during that time? Oh, yes, where I still am now, in an absolutely adorable little house by Skinnarviksparken on South Island. Are you familiar with the area around Yttersta Tvärgränd? The house is listed, so I've had to renovate it very gently. My home is important to me, the house I live and breathe in. We talk to each other every day, my house and I; exchanging experiences and wisdom. Do I need to point out that I'm the novice out of the two of us? My house has stood on the hill since the end of the eighteenth century, so in our conversations, I'm usually the one listening and learning. Christina Furhage visited me once. It felt good that my house got to know her a bit; it helped me later on in my difficult decision."

The woman again fell silent.

"Tell me about your work."

"Is that really relevant?" Beata asked with surprise.

No, not one bit, but it'll buy me time, Annika thought to herself.

"Yes, of course," she said. "A lot of people work. They will want to know what your job was like, what was on your mind when you were doing it, things like that…"

Beata straightened up. "Oh, yes, I can see that," she said.

Self-centered little shit, Annika thought to herself and managed a smile.

"I don't know how versed you are in the building trade. Maybe you don't know how the process of procurement is carried out? Actually, it doesn't really matter in this case, since the building of Victoria Stadium was so special that no general rules applied.

"Stockholm was chosen to host the Summer Olympic Games under the leadership of Christina Furhage, you know that. The decision wasn't a straightforward one. She really had to fight for her post.

"Christina really was amazing. She pushed the Olympic suits around something wonderful! We women really enjoyed having a boss like that. Not that I met her very often, but since she kept an eye on every single detail in the entire organization, I did run in to her now and then.

"I admired her a lot. When she came around, everyone pulled their socks up and did their best. She had that effect on people. What she didn't know about the Olympic planning and the building of the arena wasn't worth knowing.

"Anyway, I was employed by Arena Bygg AB. As I was both an architect and a constructional engineer, I was given several major administrative assignments straight away. I took part in negotiations, made construction drawings and calculations, visited subcontractors, and drew up contracts- a kind of general factotum in a semi-important position.

"The actual construction of Victoria Stadium was supposed to begin five years before the Games. Christina herself appointed me project manager. I remember clearly the day she asked me. I'd been called to her office, a grandiose place next door to Rosenbad with a view over the Stockholm Canal. She asked what I had been doing so far and if I was happy. I didn't think I'd done very well and stuttered a bit- my hands were all clammy. She was so impressive behind her polished desk: tall, yet slim; sharp, yet beautiful. She asked me whether I was willing to take responsibility for the building of the Olympic stadium in Hammarby Dock. My head was spinning when she uttered the words. I wanted to shout 'Oh yes!' but just nodded and said it would be a challenge. An exciting responsibility I felt ready to shoulder. She quickly added that I would have several managers and other people above me, and at the top, her. But she needed someone on site who was responsible for the operation, someone who would see to it that it ran according to schedule, that we weren't over budget, and that deliveries of building material arrived in the right place at the right time. I would of course have a team of foremen under me with responsibility for specific sections where they led the work. These foremen would be reporting to me, so that I in my turn could do my job and report to Christina and the board.

" 'I need loyalty,' Christina said and leaned toward me. 'I need your unwavering conviction that what I do is right. That's a prerequisite for anyone taking this job. Can I trust you?'

"I remember her radiance at that precise moment, how she brought me into her light, filling me with her strength and power. I wanted to scream 'YES!' but instead I just nodded. Because I knew what had happened- she had included me in her circle. She had made me her crown princess. I was chosen."

Beata started crying. She bent her head and her whole body was shaking. The rope lay by her feet, her hands holding the battery and the fuse in a desperate grip. I hope her tears don't short-circuit the battery so the charge is set off, Annika thought.

"I'm sorry," Beata said and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her coat. "This is hard for me."

Annika didn't say anything.

"It was a big responsibility, but it wasn't really a difficult job. First there was the clearing, the blasting, the excavating, and subsequent filling in and moulding. Then the builders and carpenters would arrive. It all had to be done in four years. The arena was to be ready for trial competitions a year ahead of the Games.

"It went all right at first. The workers drove their machines around and did what they were supposed to be doing. I had my office in one of the sheds down by the canal. Maybe you saw them when you came to have a look? No?

"Anyway, I did my job, talking to the coordinators down in the pit, making sure they carried out their tasks. The men who did the actual work weren't very talkative, but at least they listened to me when I gave them directions.

"Once a month, I went to Christina's office and told her how the work was coming on. She always received me with warmth and interest. After every meeting, I felt as if she knew beforehand what I was going to tell her and that she just wanted to check up on my loyalty. I always left her office with a churning feeling in the pit of my stomach and a peculiar sense of exhilaration. I was still in her circle, the power was mine, but I would have to continue fighting for it.

"I really loved my work. Sometimes, in the evening, I would stay behind after the men had gone home. On my own, I would climb around among the remains of the old Hammarby ski slope, imagining the finished arena: the enormous stands, the 75,000 spectator seats in green, the sweep of the arched openwork steel roof. I would caress the construction drawings. I even put up a large-scale picture of the model on the wall in my office. From the very beginning, I talked to the stadium. Just like a newborn baby, it didn't answer, but I'm sure it listened. I observed every detail in its development, like a breastfeeding mother marveling at the progress in her child.

"The problems started when the foundation was laid and the carpenters arrived. Several hundred men were going to perform the work I was responsible for. They were supervised by thirty-five team leaders, all men between forty and fifty-five. At this point, my workload quadrupled. On my advice, three supervisors were hired who were to share the responsibility with me, all men.

"I don't know where it all went wrong. I continued working in the same way as I had been the first years, trying to be clear and straightforward and direct. We stayed within budget and on schedule as well. Building materials arrived on time and at the right place, and work was progressing and meeting the quality requirements. I tried to be cheerful and friendly, taking pains to treat the men with respect. I can't quite say when the first signals that something was wrong started appearing, but it didn't take long. Conversations that stopped, faces I wasn't meant to see, condescending smiles, cold eyes. I organized information and update meetings, which I found constructive myself, but my message wasn't getting through. In the end, the foremen stopped coming. I'd go outside to get them, but they would just look at me and say they were busy. Naturally, it made me feel like a fool. The few who did show up questioned everything I said. They said I had ordered the material in the wrong sequence, at the wrong place, and anyway the entire batch was useless as they'd already ordered another load. Of course, that angered me, and I asked on what authority they ignored my orders and took it upon themselves to make decisions in this way. They answered me in a condescending tone: that if this project ever was to be finished on time, it needed people who knew what they were doing. I remember the feeling when I heard those words; it was as if something broke inside me. The men got up and left, contempt in their eyes. The three supervisors immediately under me stopped just outside and talked to the foremen. I heard them giving my orders and forwarding exactly the information I had on the paper in my hand- now they listened. They could take my orders if given by someone else. It wasn't my work, my judgement, or my knowledge they found faults with: It was me as a person.

"After the meeting, I summoned the three supervisors and said that we needed to work out our next step. I wanted the four of us together to put the organization to rights and take command of the employees in order for work to continue in the direction we'd decided on. They sat down around my desk, one on each side and one directly in front of me.

" 'You can't handle this job,' the first one said.

" 'Don't you see you're making a complete fool of yourself around the whole site?' asked one of his companions.

" 'Frankly, you're a joke,' the third one said. 'You've no authority, no command, and no competence.'

"I just stared at them. I couldn't believe what they were saying was true. I knew they were wrong. But once they'd got going, nothing could stop them.

" 'All you can do is swing your hips,' said number one.

" 'You're demanding too much of the men,' said number two. 'It's obvious. You must see it.'

" 'They're going to freeze you out completely,' number three said. 'You were hired on the wrong grounds and with the wrong background.'

"I remember looking at them, seeing their faces change. They all lost their features and became white and vague. I couldn't get any air; I thought I was going to suffocate. I got up and left the room. I'm afraid it didn't come over as particularly dignified."

The woman sniveled with her head bent down. Annika glanced at her with aversion. "So what?" she wanted to say. "It's like that for everybody," but she didn't say anything, and Beata continued her story:

"That night in bed, my house talked to me; words of comfort whispered through the rose-patterned wallpaper. The next day, I couldn't bear to go to work. I was paralyzed with fear, tied to my bed with it. Christina saved me. She called me at home and asked me to come to work the following morning. She had some important information that concerned everyone at the building site.

"I went to the shed the next morning in a state of peace. We had been asked to come to the North Stand at eleven o'clock. The three supervisors didn't speak to me, but I smiled at them so that they'd understand. Christina would soon be there.

"I waited for everyone to be present before I went out. I made sure I'd walk out on the stand the same time as Christina. In her light, clear voice, she said she was there to inform us of a change in management at the Olympic stadium. I felt her warmth and smiled.

" 'Beata Ekesjö will leave as project manager and be replaced by the three supervisors immediately under her,' Christina said. 'I have full confidence in her succesors and hope that work will progress as successfully as it has so far.'

"It was as if the sky had turned a flashing white. The light changed and the people froze to ice.

"On that day, the realization of what I had to do was born, but I hadn't yet formulated the goal to myself. I left the North Stand while the people were still listening to Christina's charismatic voice. Inside the shed, I had my bag with gym clothes, as I'd planned to go to the gym straight after work. I emptied the bag of its contents in my locker and brought the bag with me around to the back of the sheds. That's where the explosives bins stood, about a hundred yards apart- there are rules about how close they can stand because of the risk of detonation. One set of cartridges fits perfectly inside a gym bag; it's almost as if they're made for each other. It got really heavy, fifty pounds with the bag. But that's about the weight of a normal suitcase. You can carry it a short distance, especially if you work out in a gym three times a week…"

"Hang on," Annika said. "Aren't explosives usually guarded by all kinds of safety regulations? How could you just walk in and pick up a load of explosives?"

Beata gave her a look of pity. "Annika, I was the boss at that site. I had keys to all the locks. And I fixed the ledger so the stuff wouldn't be missed. Don't interrupt me."

"In the first box were fifteen cartridges wrapped in pink plastic. I put the box in the trunk of my car and drove home. With great care I carried my treasure into the house. That night I caressed it with my hands. There were metal clips at both ends; the plastic felt cool to the touch. My weapons both looked and felt like sausages that have been in the fridge. They were quite soft; in the evening I would sit and bend them this way and that. Yes, just like sausages, only heavier."

Beata laughed at the memory. Annika felt sick, from tiredness but also from the other woman's absolute madness.

"Can we take a break?" Annika wondered. "I'd like to have a Coke."

looked up at her. "Well, a short break. We have to finish tonight."

Annika felt herself stop cold.

"They didn't know what to do with me. My contract was for the construction of the Olympic stadium and the Village. They'd have to pay me a lot to get rid of me, and they didn't want to do that. Besides, I knew the job, so it would be stupid of them to pay for losing expertise that they needed. In the end, they made me site engineer for the construction of the technical facilities building right next to the stadium; an ordinary ten-floor building built to house cables, control rooms, and offices. Do I need to tell you that this structure felt mute and dead compared with my stadium? An empty concrete shell with no contours or shape- and it never learned to speak.

"There already was a building manager there. His name was Kurt and he regularly drank large quantities of alcohol. He hated me from the very first moment, claiming I was there to spy on him. Already on my first day at the site, his features disappeared. I couldn't see him.

"The site was one big mess. Everything was delayed and they were badly over budget. I started clearing up behind Kurt without his noticing it. On the occasions he caught me making any form of decision, he had a go at me. But after I got there, he didn't do a stroke of work. Often he didn't even show up. The first time that happened I reported it, but it made him so furious that I never did it again.

"In addition, I was now supposed to be site foreman, something I'd never been before. It got difficult. The concrete often shifted colors, and sometimes I would float, weightless, about three inches above the floor. The men changed, both shape and substance. When they asked me to order more visual angles and wondered where the eye measure was, I was dumbfounded. I knew they were poking fun at me. But I couldn't defend myself. I tried being flexible and strong at the same time. I talked to the building, but it refused to answer. Once again I was taking care of timetables and estimates, moving around on the site, but the glass cage around me was impenetrable. But we finished on time, and only marginally over budget.

"Christina was coming out to perform the inauguration. I remember the fervor and pride I felt on that day. I'd done it, I'd bounced back, I hadn't given up. I'd made sure the technical facilities building was ready in time for the trial competitions. I detested the building itself, but I had done my duty. Christina knew this, Christina would see it, Christina would understand that I was worthy of a place in the light again. She would see me for who I was and put me back in my rightful place, by her side, as her attendant, her crown princess.

"I dressed with care on the day: blouse, well-ironed trousers, and loafers. This time I was among the first to arrive; I wanted to make sure of a place near the entrance.

"I hadn't seen Christina for a long time, only glimpsed her at a distance once when she came to inspect the building of the stadium. It wasn't going very well, I'd heard. It was uncertain whether they'd finish on time. Now, here she was, shining brighter and with clearer features than I'd remembered. She said nice things about the Olympic Games and our proud Olympic Village, praising the workers and those responsible for making the work run so smoothly. So she wanted to call the project manager forward, the person who had made sure that the building was ready on time, and what a great building it was too. And she called out Kurt's name. She applauded, everyone applauded, and Kurt went up to Christina, smiling, taking her hand, she putting her hand on his arm, their mouths laughing, but there was no sound. The bastards, the bastards…

"That night I went to the explosives storage and picked up the second box of dynamite and a bag of electric detonators. This box was full of little paper-wrapped cartridges of a hundred grams apiece, little pink and purple paper tubes that looked like peppermint rock. It's some of those that you have on your back now. The box contained two hundred and fifty of them; even though I've used quite a few, there are still a lot left."

She sat in silence for a while. Annika took the opportunity to rest her head in her hands. The tunnel was completely quiet; there was only a low hum from the strip lights under the ceiling. They've stopped calling, Annika thought. Have they stopped looking for me already?

Beata resumed her story and Annika stretched her back.

"During the last year, I've been off sick quite a lot. I'm formally stationed in the pool of project managers that go around inspecting and completing details at the various training arenas. The last two months I've been working at Sätra Hall. You see the demotion I've been subject to- from the proudest of all buildings to thrashing out technicalities at the oldest training facilities. I never have time to establish any communication with my workplaces nowadays. The buildings taunt me, just as the men do. Stefan Bjurling was worst of all. He was a foreman with the subcontractor responsible for Sätra Hall. There was always a sneer on his face when I tried to talk to him. He never listened to me. He called me 'pet' and ignored everything I said. The only occasions he did refer to me was when the men asked him where they should put trash and lumber. 'Give it to little pet,' he'd say. He laughed at me, and the beautiful hall joined in. The sound was unbearable."

Beata fell silent and didn't say anything for so long that Annika started fidgeting. Her muscles ached with weariness, and on top of that she now had a bad headache. Her arms felt like lead- that paralyzing feeling that would come creeping after half past three in the morning. She recognized it from the night shifts.

She thought of her children, where they were, if they missed her. I wonder if Thomas will find the Christmas gifts? I never got to tell him I hid them in the big closet, she thought.

She looked at Beata. The woman was sitting with her head in her hands. Annika carefully turned her head and looked furtively at the bag behind her. If only she could get hold of the phone, then she could call and tell them where she was! The signal went through, even though they were in an underground tunnel. She'd be free in fifteen minutes. Easier said than done. As long as she was tied up and as long as Beata was still here. If only Beata would get her the bag and put her fingers in her ears while she made the call…

She gasped- suddenly she remembered a story she had written two years before. It was a beautiful late winter day, and people were out walking on the ice-covered waters around Stockholm…

"Are you dreaming?" Beata said.

Annika started and smiled. "No, not at all. I'm looking forward to hearing the rest," she said.

"A couple of weeks ago, Christina arranged a big party in Blå Hallen, the banqueting hall at City Hall. It was the last big party before the Games, and everyone was invited. I was really looking forward to the night. City Hall is one of my best friends. I often go up in the tower, climbing the steps, letting the stone walls dance under my hands, feeling the draught from the small apertures in the walls. I rest on the top landing. Together we share the view and the wind. It's overpoweringly erotic.

"I arrived much too early. I soon realized I was far too dressed up. But I didn't mind. City Hall was my partner and I was well looked after. Christina was coming, and I was hoping that the forgiving atmosphere in the building would straighten out all misunderstandings. I moved around among the people, had a glass of wine, and talked to the building.

"When the murmur in the hall rose to an excited buzz, I knew Christina had arrived. She was received like the queen she was. I got up on a chair in order to see it properly. It's hard to explain, but Christina had a sort of light about her, an aura that made her look like she was always in a spotlight. It was fantastic- she was fantastic. Everyone greeted her, and she nodded and smiled. She had a word for everyone. Shaking hands like an American president on an election campaign. I was standing quite far back in the hall, but she was slowly working herself over my way. I jumped down from the chair and lost sight of her, since I'm so short. But suddenly she was standing there in front of me, beautiful and glowing in her light. I felt myself beginning to smile, from ear to ear, I think I even had tears in my eyes.

" 'Welcome, Christina,' I said, holding out my hand. 'I'm so glad you're here.'

" 'Thank you,' she said. 'Have we met?'

"Her eyes met mine and her mouth was smiling. I saw she was smiling, but the smile was contorting and her face died. She had no teeth. There were maggots in her mouth and her eye sockets were empty. She smiled, breathing death and sewage. I felt myself recoiling. She didn't recognize me. She didn't know who I was. She didn't know her crown princess. She spoke, and her voice came from an abyss, dull and raucous like a tape being played too slowly.

" 'Shall we move on?' Christina boomed, the maggots crawling out of her head, and I knew then I had to kill her. You understand that, don't you? Surely you must understand? That she couldn't be allowed to live? She was a monster, a fallen angel with a halo. Evil had devoured her, corrupting her inside and out. My house was right; she was evil incarnate. I hadn't seen that, the others hadn't seen it, all they saw was what I'd seen: her successful exterior, her luminous aura, and her bleached hair. But I'd seen it, Annika; I discovered her true self. She'd shown herself to me as the monster she was, reeking of poison and rotten blood…"

Annika felt the nausea growing inside her. It was almost unbearable. Beata opened a can of Coke, drinking it in small, careful sips.

"One should really drink Diet Coke, for the calories, but I can't stand the taste. What do you think?" she asked Annika.

Annika swallowed. "You're absolutely right," she said.

Beata smiled a bit.

"My decision helped me survive the evening because the nightmare wasn't over. Do you know who she chose for her Prince, her partner at table? Of course you know that, you had a picture of them together. All of a sudden everything fell into place. I knew what the purpose of my cold treasures at home was. It was all revealed to me. The big box was meant for Christina, the smaller cartridges for those who walked in her footsteps.

"My plan was simple. I would follow Christina around. Sometimes I got it into my head that she knew I was there. She would look around anxiously before she hurried into her big car, always with the laptop under her arm. I used to wonder what she wrote on it, if she wrote anything about me or maybe about Helena Starke. I knew she often went to Helena Starke's house. I would wait outside and see her leave early in the morning. I understood they were lovers. I knew it would be fatal for Christina if this got out. That made it simple, at least theoretically. Certain things get very messy when you put them into practice, don't you think?

"Anyway, last Friday night when I saw Christina and Helena leave the Secretariat's Christmas party, I knew the time had come. I went home and picked up my big treasure. It was heavy, and I put it next to me on the front seat. On the floor in the front was a car battery that I'd bought at a gas station in Västberga. The timer I got from IKEA. People use them in their holiday cottages to fool burglars.

"I parked over where your car is now. The bag was heavy, but I'm stronger than I look. I was a bit nervous. I didn't know how much time I had, and I had to finish the preparations before Christina left Helena's house. Luckily, it all went quite quickly. I carried the bag up to the entrance around the back, switched off the alarms, and unlocked the doors. I nearly got into trouble there; a man saw me enter- he was on his way to that horrible club. If I'd still been the project manager, I'd never have allowed such an establishment right next to the stadium.

"That night, the arena was absolutely stunning. It shone at me in the moonlight. I put the box on the North Stand. The lettering gleamed all white in the dark: 'Minex 50 x 550, 24kg, 15 p.c.s. 1,600g.' I put the masking tape next to the box. It would be so easy to prime the charge, all I had to do was put the metal piece into one of the sausages and pull the fuse over toward the main entrance. There I put the battery and set the timer in the way I'd practiced. Where did I practice? In a gravel pit outside Rimbo, in the Lohärad parish. The bus only runs twice a day, but I've had plenty of time to wait. I've only set off small charges, one peppermint rock at a time; they'll last me a long time yet.

"When I'd finished my preparations, I went and unlocked the main entrance, but I left the building via this passage. The entrance here from the stadium is at the bottom of the basement, deep under the main entrance. You can go down with the main elevator, but I used the stairs. Then I walked quickly over to Ringvägen; I was afraid I'd be too late. But I wasn't, on the contrary. I had to wait for a long time in a doorway on the other side of the street. When Christina stepped out, I dialed her number from my cellphone. They can't trace me, because I used a pay-as-you-go card. They couldn't trace the call to your car yesterday either; I still had time left on the card.

"It was easy to persuade Christina to come to the stadium. I told her I knew everything about her and Helena, that I had photographs of it all, and that I'd give the negatives to Hans Bjällra, the chairman of the board, if she didn't come and talk to me. Bjällra hates Christina. Everyone at the Secretariat knows that. He would pounce on the first opportunity to humiliate her. So, Christina came, but she must have been in two minds about it. She came walking across the footbridge from South Island, fuming. It took her quite a while. For a while I thought she wasn't going to show up.

"I was waiting inside the entryway, hiding among the shadows behind the statues. My blood was boiling. The whole building was exulting. My stadium was behind me; it would stand by me. I wanted to do this properly. Christina was going to die in the place where she had broken me. She was going to be torn to pieces on the Victoria Stadium North Stand because I had been. When she entered, I was going to hit her on the head with a hammer, the builder's classic tool. Then I'd move her to the stand, prime the charge, and with my snakes of pink plastic coiled around her body, I would tell her why she was here. I was going to reveal to her that I'd seen her monster. My superiority would shine like a star in the night. Christina would ask my forgiveness, and the explosion would be the consummation of our relationship."

Beata paused for a moment to drink some Coke. Annika felt like she was about to faint.

"Unfortunately, that's not how it happened," Beata said quietly. "But the truth has to be told. I'm not trying to be a hero. I know that there'll be people who'll think I've done wrong. That's why it's important not to lie. You have to write it as it really was. Not glamorize it."

Annika nodded sincerely.

"Everything went wrong. Hitting Christina with a hammer didn't knock her out; it only made her mad as hell. She started screaming like a madwoman that I was an incompetent lunatic and that I should leave her alone. I kept hitting her with my hammer. One blow hit her on the mouth and some of her teeth flew out. She screamed and screamed, and I hit and hit. The hammer was dancing on her face. There's a lot of blood in a person's eyes. I didn't know that. In the end she fell down, and it wasn't a pretty sight. She went on screaming, and to make sure she wouldn't get up again, I smashed her kneecaps in. I didn't enjoy it. It was hard work and difficult to do. You understand that, don't you? She wouldn't stop screaming, so I hit her on the throat. When I tried dragging her up to the stand, she scratched my hands. I had to hit her on the elbows and the fingers, too. Then I started the long climb up on the stand, up to the place where she'd stood that day she crushed me. I started sweating. She was quite heavy, and she wouldn't stop moaning. By the time I reached my treasure, my arms were shaking. I put her between the seats and started tying the explosives to her with the masking tape.

"But Christina didn't understand it was time to give up. Her role was to be the audience. She squirmed like the worm she was, and got out on the steps next to her. She started rolling down the stands, screaming all the while. I started losing control of my work; it was terrible. I went and got hold of her and hit her on the back a few times. I don't know if I broke it. In the end, she was lying still enough for me to tie the sausages on her. Fifteen in all. There was no time for forgiveness or reflection. I just pushed the metal piece into one of the sausages and ran over to the battery. The timer was set for five minutes, but I turned it down to three. Christina was still whimpering; she didn't sound human. She sounded like the monster she was. I stood at the entrance, listening to her song of death. When only thirty seconds remained, she managed to get two of the charges loose, despite her smashed-up limbs. That shows her strength, don't you think? Unfortunately, I couldn't stay to the end. I missed her last seconds because I had to take cover in my cave. I was halfway down the stairs when the shockwave hit me. I was amazed. I think I'd underestimated the power of the explosive. The damage was enormous. The whole North Stand was destroyed. That wasn't my intention, you understand that, don't you? I didn't want to damage the stadium. What had happened was none of the building's doing…"

Annika felt her tears rolling. She had never written anything so appalling in her life. She was close to passing out. She'd been sitting on the stool for several hours. Her legs ached so badly she wanted to scream out. The charge on her back was heavy. She was so tired she just wanted to lie down, even if it meant setting off the charge and dying.

"Why are you crying?" Beata said suspiciously.

Annika breathed for a second before she replied: "Because it got so difficult for you. Why couldn't she have let you do it the right way?"

Beata nodded and also wiped away a tear. "I know," she said. "Life's never fair."

"It was easier with Stefan. That went more or less according to my plans. I made him responsible for finishing off the judges' changing rooms before the Christmas holidays. The choice of location was simple. That's where I first met Stefan and where he told me that the workers in Sätra Hall would all freeze me out. I knew he would do the work himself. Stefan played the horses and took every opportunity to put in some overtime. He saw to it that he was the only one left at the site, and then he bumped up his hours on his time sheet. This must have been going on for years. No one ever checked up on him since he was a foreman. Besides, he was a fast worker when he wanted to be and pretty sloppy, too.

"Last Monday, I went to work as usual. Everyone was talking about the blowing up of Christina Furhage, but no one said anything to me. I hadn't expected them to either.

"In the evening, I stayed on in the office with my papers. When the hall was quiet, I took a stroll and saw that Stefan Bjurling was working in the changing rooms at the far end. I went to my locker and got out my gym bag. Inside it were my treasures: the peppermint rocks, the yellow and green wires, the masking tape, and the small timer. This time I didn't bring a hammer; it had been far too messy. Instead I'd bought a rope, the kind you use for children's swings and similar. The rope around your neck is from the same roll. While Stefan was drilling into the far wall, I walked in, put the rope around his neck and pulled. Hard. This time I was more determined. I would not tolerate any screaming or fighting. Stefan Bjurling dropped the drill and tumbled backwards. I was ready for it and used his fall to pull the noose even tighter. He lost consciousness and I struggled to get him onto the chair standing nearby. I tied him to it and dressed him for his funeral. Peppermint rocks, fuse, timer, and flashlight battery. I fastened it all to his back and waited patiently for him to come around.

"He didn't say anything, but I saw that his eyelids were twitching. I explained to him what was going to happen and why. The reign of Evil on Earth was coming to an end. He was going to die because he was a monster. I explained to him that more people would go his way. I have many more treasures in my box. Then I set the timer for five minutes and walked back to my office. On my way, I made sure that all doors were unlocked. The Bomber would have had no problem getting inside the building. I pretended to be shocked by the explosion when I called the police. I lied to them and said someone else had done what was really my work. They took me to South Hospital and escorted me into the Accident and Emergency Department. They said they wanted to interview me the following day. I decided to go on lying for the time being. The time wasn't yet ripe for the truth. It is now.

"The doctors examined me, I assured them I was just fine, and then I walked through the city, past Yttersta Tvärgränd and home. I realized it was time for me to leave my house for good. That night I slept in it for the last time. It was a brief and composed leave-taking. I already knew then that I would never return. My wanderings will end elsewhere.

"Early Tuesday morning, I went to work to collect my last belongings. When I entered Sätra Hall, I was met by the instant and unfair censure of the building. I was overcome with a deep and heavy sadness, so I hid in a room where the building couldn't see me. In vain, naturally, because that's when you found me."

Annika felt she couldn't write any more. She put her hands on her lap and bowed her head.

"What is it?" Beata asked.

"I'm so tired," Annika said. "Can I stand up and move my legs? They've fallen asleep."

Beata looked at her in silence for a moment. "All right, then, but don't you try anything.

Annika slowly stood up; she had to lean against the wall not to fall over. She stretched and bent her legs as well as she could with the rattling chains. She glanced furtively at her feet and saw that Beata had used two small padlocks to fasten the chains. If only she could get hold of the keys somehow, she could get loose. It looked hopeless. She didn't even know where the keys were.

"Don't think you can get away," Beata said.

Annika looked up with feigned surprise. "Of course not," she said. "We haven't finished our work yet."

She moved the stool away from the table a bit to get more room for her legs.

"There's not much left now," Beata said.

She studied Annika, and Annika realized that she didn't know what to think.

"Do you want to read it?" she said and turned the computer so that the screen was facing Beata.

The woman didn't reply.

"It would be good if you could read it through to make sure I've got everything right. And you should size up my tone of voice. I haven't quoted you directly all the time, but have made your story a bit more literary," Annika said.

Beata studied Annika closely, then she walked up to the table and moved it closer to her.

"Could I rest for a while?" Annika wondered, and Beata nodded.

Annika lay down and turned her back to the Bomber. She needed to think about her next move.

Two years before, a man in his sixties had disappeared on the ice in the Stockholm archipelago. It was a sunny and warm late-winter day. The man had gone out walking and lost his way. For three days and nights the coast guard and the police had searched for him. Annika had been in the helicopter that finally saved him.

Suddenly, she knew exactly what she had to do.

Thomas got up from the bed. He wouldn't be able to get any more sleep. He went to the bathroom and peed. He went over to the living room window and stood staring at the Royal Palace again. The traffic had died down. The floodlit facades on the majestic neighboring buildings, the glimmering streetlights, the depth of the black water- the view really was stunning. Yet he felt he couldn't stand it for another second. He felt as if he'd lost Annika right here in this room. It was here that he'd realized that she might be gone forever.

He rubbed his dry, red eyes and heaved a deep sigh. He'd made up his mind. As soon as the children woke up, they'd leave the hotel and go to his parents' home in Vaxholm. They would spend Christmas with them instead. He had to experience what life without Annika might look like. He had to prepare, or he'd go to pieces. He tried to imagine how he'd react if they told him that she was dead. He couldn't. The only thing that would remain would be a bottomless black hole. He'd have to go on, for the children, for Annika. They would have pictures of Mommy everywhere. They would often talk about her and celebrate her birthdays…

He turned away from the window and began crying again.

"Why are you sad, Daddy?"

Kalle was standing in the bedroom door. Thomas quickly composed himself.

"I'm sad because Mommy isn't here. I miss her, that's all."

"Grown-ups get sad too sometimes," Kalle said.

Thomas went up to the boy and took him in his arms.

"Yes, and we cry when things are hard. But do you know what? You should get some more sleep. Do you know what day it is today?"

"Christmas!" the boy shouted.

"Shh, you'll wake up Ellen. Yes, it's Christmas, and Santa will come tonight. You'll have to be awake for that, so hurry back to bed now."

"I have to go to the toilet first," Kalle said, struggling free from Thomas's arms.

When the boy returned from the bathroom, he asked: "Why isn't Mommy coming?"

"She'll be here later," Thomas said without a moment's hesitation.

"It's Disney on TV today, and Mommy loves to watch that on Christmas Eve. Will she be back to watch it?"

"I'm sure she will," Thomas said and kissed the boy on his head. "Off you go to bed!"

Tucking the boy in under the fluffy duvet, his eyes landed on the clock-radio next to the bed. The digital red numbers colored the corner of the pillowcase pink. They were showing 5:49.

"This is good," Beata said contentedly. "It's exactly as I wanted it."

Annika had fallen into a light doze but immediately sat up when the Bomber started talking.

"I'm glad you think so. I've done my best."

"Yes, you really have. That's the nice thing about professionals," Beata said and smiled.

Annika returned the smile, and they sat smiling at each other until Annika decided it was time to implement her plan.

"Do you know what day it is today?" she said, still smiling.

"Christmas Eve, of course," Beata said and laughed. "Of course I know that!"

"Yes, but the time leading up to Christmas always flies past. I hardly ever manage to buy all the gifts in time. But do you know what- I've got something for you, Beata."

The woman instantly became suspicious. "You couldn't have bought a present for me. You don't know me."

Annika was smiling so hard that her jaws were beginning to ache.

"I do now. I bought the present for a friend, a woman who deserves it. But I think you deserve it more."

Beata didn't believe her. "Why would you give me a present? I'm the Bomber."

"It's not for the Bomber," Annika said in a steady voice. "It's for Beata, a girl who's had a really shitty time. I think you need a nice Christmas gift after all you've been through."

Her words were upsetting Beata's calculations, Annika could see that. The woman's gaze was wandering, and she was twiddling the fuse with her fingers.

"When did you buy it?" she asked uncertainly.

"The other day. It's very nice."

"Where is it, then?"

"In my bag. It's at the bottom, underneath my sanitary towels."

Beata winced, just as Annika had gambled she would. Beata was squeamish about her female functions. She was really rolling the dice.

"It's a beautiful little parcel," Annika said. "If you get the bag, I'll give you your Christmas gift."

Beata didn't buy that, Annika immediately saw.

"Don't try anything," she said menacingly and got to her feet.

Annika sighed. "I'm not the one walking around with dynamite in my bag. There's nothing in that bag except for a pad, some pens, a packet of sanitary towels, and a present for you. Get it and see for yourself!"

Annika held her breath; she was taking a big risk. Beata hesitated for a moment.

"I don't want to rummage through your bag," she said.

Annika took a deep breath. "What a pity. The present would have looked nice on you."

That made Beata's mind up. She put the battery and the fuse on the floor and picked up the end of the rope tied around Annika's neck.

"If you try anything, I'll pull."

Annika put her hands in the air and smiled. Beata walked backwards to the place where the bag had landed more than sixteen hours ago. She picked up both the handles with one hand, holding the rope in the other. She slowly walked up to Annika.

"I'll be standing here all the time," she said and dropped the bag in Annika's lap.

Annika's heart was pounding so hard her head was echoing. Her whole body was shaking; this was her only chance. She smiled up at Beata, hoping her pulse wasn't visible on her temples. Then she looked down at Beata's legs. She was still holding on to the handles of the bag. Slowly, she put her hand into the bag and found the parcel right away, the little box with the garnet brooch for Anne Snapphane. She quickly started feeling among the things inside the bag.

"What are you doing?" Beata said, snatching the bag away from her.

"I'm sorry," Annika said, barely making out her own voice for the thundering noise of her beating heart. "I can't find it. Let me try again."

Beata hesitated for several seconds. Annika's brain had stopped working. She mustn't plead because that would be the end of it. She had to play on Beata's curiosity.

"I don't want to tell you what it is beforehand; that would spoil the surprise. But I think you'll like it," Annika said.

The woman held out the bag once more, and Annika took a deep breath. She firmly pushed her arm down, felt the parcel, and right next to it the phone. Dear God, she thought, please let the hands-free kit be connected! Her upper lip was covered in sweat. The battery side was turned up, good, or Beata might see the green display light up. She'd done this a thousand times without giving it a thought. She fumbled for the different buttons, found the big oval one, and pressed it lightly. Then she moved her finger an inch down to the right, found the number one button, pressed that, and moved her finger back to the big one for a third push.

"There we are. I've got it," Annika said, moving her hand to the package nearby. Her arm was shaking when she lifted it out, but Beata didn't notice. All the Bomber saw was the gold wrapping paper and the blue ribbon gleaming in the harsh light. There was no sound from the bag. The hands-free kit was connected. Beata backed away and put the bag next to the dynamite box. Annika desperately needed air and forced herself to soundlessly take deep, gulping breaths. "Menu-1-Menu," she had pressed; "Phone book-Newsdesk-Dial."

"Can I open it now?" Beata said, full of expectation.

Annika couldn't speak. She just nodded.

Jansson had sent off the last page to the printers. He was always a little tired the first night of his shift, but now he felt totally paralyzed. He usually had breakfast in the cafeteria, a cheese roll and big mug of tea, but he wouldn't have any today. He'd just stood up and was putting on his jacket when his phone rang. Jansson groaned loudly and considered not even checking the display to see who it was. I'd better, he thought, it could be the printers. Sometimes the color files weren't transferred properly and the yellow plate would be missing. He reached out for the phone and saw the familiar number. At the same moment, every single hair on his body stood on end.

"It's Annika!" he bellowed. "Annika is phoning on my extension!"

Anders Schyman, Patrik, Berit, and Janet Ullberg all turned toward him from where they were standing at the picture desk.

"There's a call from Annika's cellphone!" he roared. He was staring wide-eyed at his telephone.

"Then pick it up, for God's sake, pick it up!" Schyman shouted back and started running across the floor.

Jansson took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

"Annika! Annika, is that you?"

There was nothing but a crackle and hum.

"Hello! Annika!"

The others had reached Jansson's desk and were standing around him.

"Hello? Hello! Are you there?"

"Give it to me," Schyman said.

Jansson handed the phone to the editor. Schyman put the receiver to his ear and plugged the other with a finger. He heard static and buzzing, and a rising and falling noise which could be voices.

"She must be alive," he whispered, handing the phone back to Jansson. "Don't hang up." He walked into his office and phoned the police.

"It's beautiful! Absolutely beautiful."

Beata really sounded overwhelmed. Annika felt a renewed energy.

"It's old, almost antique," she said. "Real garnets and gold on top of silver. It's the kind of thing I would like to have myself. Those are the best gifts, don't you think?"

The woman didn't reply, just stared at the brooch.

"I've always been fond of jewelry," Annika said. "When I was a little girl, I saved up money for years to buy a heart of white gold with a wreath of diamonds. I had seen it in a catalog from the jeweler's shop in town, one of those mailings they do before Christmas. When I finally had saved enough to buy it, I'd outgrown it all and bought a set of skis instead…"

"Thank you so much," the Bomber said in a hushed voice.

"My pleasure," Annika said. "My grandmother had a similar brooch, maybe that's why I decided on it."

Beata undid the top buttons of her coat and pinned the brooch to her sweater.

"This could be the breakthrough we need," the cop on the phone told Schyman. "You can hang up now; the call has gone through. We'll fix the rest together with the service provider now."

"What are you going to do?" Schyman asked.

"We'll contact the central operations office of the service provider, Comviq, out in Kista. They may be able to trace the call."

"Can I come with you?" Schyman quickly asked.

The policeman wavered only briefly. "I don't see why not," he said.

Schyman hurried back to the newsroom.

"The police are tracing the call, so you can hang up now," he called out, putting his coat on.

"Do you think it'll do any harm if we keep listening?" asked Berit, who was now sitting with the phone against her ear.

"I don't know. I'll call if that's the case. Don't anyone leave. I need you all to stay right here."

He took the stairs down to the entrance and noticed his legs were shaking from weariness. It wouldn't be a good idea to drive now, he thought, and ran over to the taxi stand.

It was still dark outside and the road out to Kista was deserted. They drove fast and met only a few other cars along the way, the taxi driver saluting those from his own firm with his left hand. They reached Borgarfjordsgatan, and while Schyman was paying the taxi with his company card, a car drove up next to them and stopped. A man got out and came over to Schyman. He asked Schyman who he was and introduced himself as a police officer.

"If we're lucky we might be able to track her down this way," the policeman said.

His face was white with exhaustion and there was a rigid line round his mouth. Suddenly Anders Schyman thought he knew who this man must be.

"Do you know Annika?" the editor asked.

The policeman drew a deep breath and looked askance at Schyman.

"Sort of," he said.

At that moment, a sleepy security guard appeared and let them into the building housing the head offices of both Comviq and Tele2. He led them through a series of long passages and corridors until they eventually stepped into a room filled by enormous TV screens. Anders Schyman gave a whistle.

"Looks like in an American spy movie, doesn't it?" a man approaching them said.

The editor nodded and said hello to the man. "Or the control room at a nuclear power station," Schyman said.

"I'm a systems technician here. Welcome. Please come this way," the man said and showed them to the center of the room.

Anders Schyman slowly followed the cop and the technician. The room was packed with computers; projectors made the walls serve as gigantic computer screens.

"From here we control the entire Comviq network," the technician began. "There are two of us working the night shift. The search you want to do is a very simple one. I only had to execute one single command from my terminal and the search is underway."

He indicated his workstation. Anders Schyman had no idea what he was looking at.

"It'll take up to fifteen minutes, even though I limited the search to start at 5 A.M. It's been going about ten minutes now. Let's have a look and see if we've got anything…"

He turned to a computer and clicked on the keyboard.

"Nope, nothing yet," he said.

"Fifteen minutes, isn't that very long?" Anders Schyman said, noticing how dry his mouth was.

The technician regarded him steadily. "Fifteen minutes is quick. It's Christmas Eve morning, and there's very little traffic right now. That's why I think the search will be fast."

As he said that, a row of data appeared on the screen. He turned his back to Schyman and the cop and sat on his chair. He clattered away on his keyboard for a couple of minutes, then gave a sigh. "I can't find it. Are you sure the call came from her cellphone?"

Schyman's pulse quickened. They couldn't screw it up. He felt confusion mount within him. Did these people even know what had happened? Did they know how important it was?

"Our night editor would know her number in his sleep. They were still sitting around listening to the static from her phone when I left the newspaper," he said and licked his lips.

"Ah, that explains it," the technician said and executed another command. The data disappeared from the screen and it went black.

"All we can do now is wait," he said and turned to face Schyman and the policeman again.

"What do you mean?" Schyman queried, hearing himself sound upset.

"If the call is still going on, we haven't received any information yet. The data is stored internally in the phone for thirty minutes," he said and got up from the chair. "After thirty minutes, the telephone creates a bill, which it then sends here to us. Among that data, we can find A numbers and B numbers, base station and cell."

Anders Schyman looked at the flickering screens and felt ever more confused. Exhaustion was pounding his brain; he felt he was in the middle of a surreal nightmare.

"Please explain that," the cop asked.

"According to your information, the call from Annika Bengtzon reached the newsdesk of Kvällspressen just after 6 A.M., right? If the line hasn't been broken, the first data pertaining to the call will reach us just after six thirty, which is soon."

"I don't understand," Schyman said. "How can you tell where she is from her cellphone?"

"This is how it works," the technician said obligingly. "Cellphones work just like radio transmitters and receivers. The signals are transmitted via a number of base stations, that is telephone masts, up and down the country. Each base station has various cells that pick up signals from different places in different directions. All cellphones that are switched on connect with the exchange every four hours. We ran the first search on Annika Bengtzon's telephone number already last night."

"You did?" Schyman said with surprise. "Can you do that on anyone, just like that?"

"Of course not," the technician replied calmly. "Any kind of search like this one has to be authorized by a court order."

He walked over to another screen and typed something on the keyboard. Then he went to a printer and waited for the printout.

"Anyway, the last call from Annika's phone, apart from the ongoing one, was connected at 13:09 yesterday afternoon," he said, studying the sheet. "It was for the daycare center on 38B Scheelegatan in Kungsholmen."

He put the computer printout on his lap. "The signal from Annika's cellphone has been connected via a station in Nacka."

The plain-clothes policeman took over: "The call has been confirmed by the manager of the daycare center. Annika didn't sound strange or at all pressured. She was relieved when she heard they were open until five o'clock. This means she was still moving around freely at 1 P.M., and she was somewhere east of Danvikstull."

The technician went back to reading the printout. "The next signal from her phone went through at 17:09. As I said before, a phone that is switched on connects with the provider's exchange every four hours."

Schyman barely had the energy to listen to the technician. He sank down on an empty swivel chair and rubbed his fingers against his temples.

"There's an internal clock in every telephone that begins the countdown every time it's switched on," the technician continued. "After four hours, the countdown is complete. Then a signal is transmitted that tells the system where the phone is located. Since the signals have been coming through during the night, Annika must have had her cellphone switched on. As far as we can see, she hasn't moved during the night."

Schyman felt his body tense. "So you know where she is?" he said in a strained voice.

"We know that her phone is somewhere near Stockholm city center," the technician said. "We can only see which area it is, and that means the central city districts and the nearby suburbs."

"So she could be somewhere nearby?"

"Yes, her cellphone has not been moved outside of this area during the night."

"Is that why you told us not to phone her?"

The policeman stepped forward. "Yes, and for other reasons. If someone is with her and hears the phone ring, they might switch it off, and then we couldn't tell if she were moved."

"If she is in the same place as the cellphone…" Schyman pointed out.

"Hasn't it been fifteen minutes yet?" the policeman asked.

"Not quite," the technician replied.

They turned their attention to the screen and waited. Schyman had to go to the toilet and left the room for a few minutes. As he emptied his bladder, he noticed that his legs were shaking.

Nothing had happened when he returned to the room.

"Nacka," Schyman said absently. "What on earth was she doing there?"

"Here we go," the technician said. "Right, there it is. The A number is for Annika Bengtzon's cellphone, the B number is for the Kvällspressen switchboard."

"Can you tell where she is?" the policeman asked tensely.

"Yes, I've got a code here. One moment…"

The technician tapped on his keyboard and Schyman felt cold.

"527 D," the technician said doubtfully.

"What?" the policeman said. "What's the matter?"

"We never usually have more than three cells at each base station: A, B, and C. There are more here, and that's very unusual. D cells are usually special ones."

"Where is it?" the policeman asked.

"One moment," the technician said, as he quickly got to his feet and walked over to another terminal.

"What are you doing?" Schyman asked.

"We have more than a thousand masts around Sweden; you can't remember them all," he said apologetically. "Here it is, base station 527 in Hammarby Dock."

Anders Schyman felt his head spin and a strange chill on his neck. Christ, that's the Olympic Village!

The technician had another look. "Cell D is in the tunnel between Victoria Stadium and Training Arena A."

The policeman's face turned even whiter. "What tunnel?"

The technician looked at them gravely. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, only that there is a tunnel somewhere under the stadium."

"Are you positive?"

"The call was transmitted via a cell that sits in the actual tunnel. A cell usually covers a larger area, but the reception is quite limited in tunnels. We have one cell covering only the South Tunnel, for example."

"So she's in a tunnel under the Olympic Village?" the policeman asked.

"Her phone is, at least. I can guarantee you that," the technician replied.

The policeman was already halfway out of the room.

"Thank you," Anders Schyman said, squeezing the technician's hand between both his own.

Then he hurried after the cop.

Annika had dozed off when she suddenly felt Beata tinkering with something on her back.

"What are you doing?" Annika asked.

"You go on sleeping. I'm just checking that the charge is okay. We're getting nearer the time now."

Annika felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over her. All her nerves contracted in a hard knot somewhere in her midriff. She tried to speak, but couldn't. Instead she began shaking all over.

"What's with you?" Beata said. "Don't tell me you'll start acting like Christina. You know I don't like it to be messy."

Annika breathed rapidly and with her mouth slightly open. Calm down, talk to her, come on, talk to her, buy time.

"I was wondering… I just wanted to know… what will you do with my story?" she managed to squeeze out.

"It'll be published in Kvällspressen, as big as when Christina Furhage died," Beata said complacently. "It's a good piece."

Annika braced herself.

"I don't think that's going to be possible," she said.

Beata interrupted what she was doing.

"Why not?"

"How will they get hold of the text? You don't have a modem here."

"I'll just send the whole computer to the paper."

"My editor won't know I wrote it. It doesn't say that anywhere. It's written in the first person. In its present shape, it just looks like a long letter to the editor."

Beata stood her ground. "They'll publish it."

"Why should they? My editor doesn't know who you are. He might not understand how important it is that this piece is published. And who's going to tell him when I'm… gone?"

That gave her something to think about, Annika thought as the woman went back to her stool and sat down.

"You're right," she said. "You must write an introduction to the article and tell them exactly how to go about its publication."

Maybe that would buy her a little time. But perhaps she'd been wrong to play so much into the woman's hands. What if it had made everything even worse? But then she dismissed the thought. It couldn't really be much worse. Christina had fought her, and she'd had her face smashed in. If she had to die, it was better to be writing on a computer than to be tortured.

She sat up, her whole body aching. The floor was tottering beneath her feet, and she noticed she had difficulty judging the distance.

"Okay," she said. "Give me the computer and we'll finish this off."

Beata pushed the table back.

"Say that you've written it and that they must publish the piece in its entirety."

Annika wrote. She knew she had to buy more time. If she'd succeeded with the phone, the police ought to be somewhere nearby now. She didn't know how accurately the cellphone would pinpoint her, but the man out on the ice two years ago had been located immediately. He had been beyond all hope; his family had already begun to make arrangements for a memorial service when he phoned his son on his cellphone. The old man had been completely exhausted and very confused. He had had no idea where he was. He couldn't describe any landmarks. It's all white, was all he could say. Not a particularly distinctive feature in Sweden in the winter.

Still the man had been rescued within an hour. With the help of the phone operator, the police had narrowed down his whereabouts to within a radius of six hundred meters, and they'd found the man inside that circle. And the operator had been able to determine that from the signal of the cellphone.

"By the way," Annika said, "how did you get inside the stadium?"

"Nothing to it," Beata said in a superior manner. "I had both a card and the code."

"How come? It's been a couple of years since you worked on the arena."

Beata got to her feet. "I've already told you that," she said stridently. "I worked in the pool and visited every paltry little hall that was connected to the Games. We had access to the central office where all entry cards and codes are kept. We had to sign for them and hand them back after we were done, of course, but I managed to take a few. I wanted to be able to visit the buildings that spoke nicely to me. The Olympic stadium and I have always gotten along very well. I've always kept a card to this place."

"And the code?"

Beata sighed. "I'm good with computers," she said. "The codes for the arena are changed every month, and the changes are recorded in a special computer file that you have to have a password to enter. They never changed the password."

She smiled a lopsided smile. Annika started writing again. She had to think of other questions to ask.

"What are you writing?"

Annika looked up. "I'm explaining the importance of making this story as big as the death of Christina Furhage," she said cheerfully.

"You're lying!" Beata cried, and Annika jumped.

"What do you mean?"

"They couldn't make as many pages as when Christina died." Beata suddenly looked wild. "You know it was you who started calling me 'The Bomber'? Can you imagine how much I hate that name? Can you?! You were the worst of all of them. You always wrote that bullshit on the front page. I hate you!"

Beata's eyes were on fire, and Annika realized that she had nothing to say.

"You came in the room where I had been overcome by sorrow," Beata said, slowly approaching Annika. "You saw me in my misery and yet you didn't help me. You listened to the others but not to me. It's been like that my whole life. No one has heard me call out. No one but my houses. But that's finished now. I'll get you all!"

The woman reached out for the rope hanging from Annika's neck.

"No!" Annika cried out.

Her cry made Beata stop momentarily in her tracks. Then she grabbed the rope and pulled it as tight as she could, but Annika had been prepared. She got both her hands in between the rope and her neck. The Bomber tugged again and Annika fell off her stool. She managed to twist her body so that she fell on her side and not on the charge.

"You're going to die now, you bitch!" Beata screamed, and in the same instant Annika noticed there was something wrong with the echo. Next she felt a cold draught on the floor.

"Help!" she cried out as loud as she could.

"Stop screaming!" Beata roared and pulled again at the rope. She pulled Annika further out onto the floor, grazing her face on the concrete.

"I'm here, around the corner!" Annika cried, and right then Beata must have caught sight of them. She dropped the rope, turned around, and searched along the wall with her eyes. Annika knew what she was looking for. As if in slow motion, she saw Beata start for the battery and the fuse. The shot was fired a fraction of a second later. It ripped open a crater high up on Beata's back, pushing her violently forward. Another shot rang out. Annika instinctively turned her back to the wall, away from the gunfire.

"No!" she screamed. "Don't shoot, for Christ's sake! You might hit the charge!"

As the echo of the last shot died down, she saw smoke and dust in the air. Beata lay still a few yards away from her. The silence was complete. All she could hear was a high-frequency ringing in her ears from the shots. Suddenly, she felt that someone was standing next to her. She looked up at a pale, plain-clothes policeman stooped over her with his weapon drawn.

"You!" she said with surprise.

The man looked at her anxiously and loosened the noose around her neck. "Yes, me," he said. "How are you? Are you okay?"

It was her secret source, her "deep throat." She smiled wanly and felt him pull the rope over her head. To her surprise, she burst into a flood of tears.

The policeman picked up his radio and called out his number. "We need two ambulances," he said, looking up and down the passageway.

"I'm okay," Annika whispered.

"Hurry, we've got a gunshot injury," he called out on the radio.

"I've got an explosive charge on my back."

The man lowered his radio.

"What did you say?"

"There's an explosive charge on my back here. Have a look."

She turned around and the policeman saw the pack of dynamite on her back.

"Oh, my God, don't move," he said.

"It's all right," Annika said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. "It's been there all night without going off."

"Evacuate the tunnel!" he shouted back toward the door. "Hold the ambulance people! We've got a charge here!"

The man leaned over her, and Annika closed her eyes. She could hear there were more people nearby, steps and voices.

"Take it easy, Annika, we'll sort it out," the policeman said.

Beata groaned where she lay on the floor.

"Make sure she doesn't get hold of the fuse," Annika said in a low voice.

The man got to his feet and followed the fuse with his eyes. Then he took a few steps, grabbed the yellow and green wire, and pulled it to him.

"There we are," he said to Annika. "Let's see what you've got here."

"It's Minex," Annika said. "Small, like peppermint rock."

"Yes," the policeman replied. "What else do you know?"

"It's approximately four pounds, and the firing switch could be unstable."

"Shit! I'm not very good with these things," he said.

Annika heard sirens far away. "Are they coming here?"

"Right again. Lucky you're still alive."

"It wasn't easy," Annika said, sniffling.

"Keep very still now…"

He studied the charge with great concentration for a few seconds. Then he grabbed the fuse, at the top of the charge, and pulled it out. Nothing happened.

"Thank God," he mumbled. "It was as easy as I thought."

"What?" Annika asked.

"This is an everyday charge, the kind you use at building sites. It wasn't booby-trapped. All you have to do to disarm it is to pull the metal piece away from the cartridge."

"You're joking," Annika said in disbelief. "I could have pulled it out myself, when she wasn't here?"

"More or less."

"So why the hell have I been sitting here all night?" she said, furious with herself.

"Annika, Annika, there was a noose around your neck as well. That could have killed you just as effectively. And were your hands free? You've got some nasty bruises, by the way. And if she had as much as let the fuse touch the battery it would have been the end, both for her and you."

"There's a timer as well."

"Hang on, let me get this off your back. What the hell has she fastened it with?"

"Masking tape."

"Okay. There's no wiring inside the tape? Good, I'll just rip it off… There, it's gone now."

Annika felt the weight lift from her back. She leaned back against the wall and pulled the tape from her stomach.

"You couldn't have gotten far anyway, the policeman said, pointing at the chains. "Do you know where the keys are?"

Annika shook her head and pointed at Beata. "She must have them on her somewhere."

The policeman picked up his radio and called out that the others could come in; the charge was disarmed.

"There's more dynamite over there," Annika said, pointing.

"Good, we'll take care of it.

He picked up the taped-up cartridges and put them among the others and then went up to Beata. The woman lay on her stomach, completely still, with blood running out of a hole in her shoulder. The policeman felt her pulse and lifted her eyelids.

"Will she live?" Annika asked.

"Who gives a damn?" he answered.

Annika heard herself say: "I do."

Two paramedics appeared in the tunnel, wheeling a stretcher between them. The policeman helped them lift Beata onto it. On his instruction, one of the paramedics went through her pockets and found two padlock keys.

"I'll do it," Annika said, and the policeman handed them over to her.

The paramedics checked Beata's vital signs while Annika unlocked the chains. She stood up on shaky legs and watched the men pushing Beata toward the exit of the tunnel. The woman's eyelids fluttered and she caught sight of Annika. It seemed as if she tried to say something, but her voice didn't carry.

Annika followed the stretcher with her eyes while it disappeared around the corner. Policemen and civilians were standing in the passageway. Speech was filling the air, voices rising and falling. She blocked her ears: She was near collapse.

"Do you need help?" her source said.

She sighed and felt that her tears were near. "I want to go home," was all she said.

"You have to go to the hospital for a check-up," he said.

"No," Annika said firmly, thinking of her soiled trousers. "I want to go past Hantverkargatan first. Where's Thomas? And the kids? Are they there?"

"Come on, I'll help you out. Everyone's fine. We're looking after them."

The man grabbed her around the waist and led her toward the exit. Annika realized something was missing.

"Hang on, my bag," she said, stopping. "I want my bag and the Powerbook."

The man said something to a uniformed policeman and someone handed Annika her bag.

"Is this your computer?" the policeman asked her.

Annika hesitated.

"Do I need to answer that right now?"

"No, it can wait. Let's get you home first."

They were approaching the exit and Annika glimpsed a wall of people in the dark outside the arena. Instinctively, she drew back.

"It's just police and medical personnel out there," the man next to her said.

At the same moment that she put her foot on the ground outside, a flash went off right in her face. For a second, she was blinded and heard herself cry out. The contours returned and she caught sight of the camera and the photographer. In two bounds, she reached him and decked him with a straight right.

"You bastard!" she screamed.

"Christ, Annika, what are you doing?" the photographer yelped.

It was Henriksson.

She asked the police to stop at a corner shop near her house and buy her some conditioner. Then she walked the two floors up to her apartment, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside the quiet hallway. It felt like another time, as if several years had gone by since she was here last. She pulled off all her clothes and dropped them on the floor. She took a towel from the toilet next door and wiped her stomach and bottom. She marched straight into the shower and spent a long time in there. She knew that Thomas was at the Grand Hotel. They'd come home when the children woke up.

She put on clean clothes. All the used ones, including the shoes and the coat, she put in a big black trash bag. She picked up the trash bag and went and threw it in the communal refuse room.

Now there was only one thing she had to do before she could lie down and sleep. She switched on Christina's computer; the battery was nearly dead. She got a disk and downloaded her own piece to it. She hesitated for a moment, but then she clicked on Christina's file, marked "Me."

There were seven documents, seven chapters that all began with one single word: Existence, Love, Humanity, Happiness, Lies, Evil, and Death.

Annika opened the first one and started reading.

She had spoken to everyone around Christina Furhage: her family, her lover, her colleagues, everyone who knew her. They had all contributed to the image of the Olympic supremo that Annika had formed in her mind.

At last, Christina was speaking for herself.